Our Story: The Philosopher's Stone
by MuffinPuppet
Summary: During Rose's first year at Hogwarts, Ron and Hermione send her a series of letters recounting their own first year at school. SS/PS from Ron and Hermione's point of view.
1. Before Hogwarts

**A/N: I finally grew tired of searching for decent fics that told the first book from Ron's or Hermione's point of view (I did read an excellent one years ago, from Hermione's eyes, but it's long gone by now), and decided to write my own, from both Ron and Hermione's point of view. I submitted this to an R/Hr site but they have a long queue so I got sick of waiting and am putting it here. Though I have another unfinished story on this site which I have not abandoned, right now I'm having fun with this. Please leave a review if you read!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing—in this case, not even the basic plot of the story. It ALL belongs to JKR.**

--

We've always planned to write this down for you. We know that you know the whole story (or perhaps we just take for granted that you've heard it all; there may yet be some surprises), but you always want to know more, you always insist we're leaving something out. And as you boarded the train, asking us how we felt at this point in our lives, asking us to write often with news of our daily lives, we realized why that is. We've been telling you a story in which we were supporting characters, the literary tools, if you will, there to move the true hero along and do our part according to the convenience of that particular plotline. We've been telling you Harry's story. What you've wanted to hear is our story.

True, we hardly know the difference ourselves anymore. There was a time when each of us believed—as does everyone privately, and no one more so than adolescents—that it was ourselves the invisible audience to life was _really _watching, ourselves whose personal triumph _really _mattered. And as you know, pieces of this childish belief lingered and often made us want to reject the role we'd been given in someone else's story. But once we'd come to almost think of ourselves in terms of our best friend, we almost lost sight at times of having our own modest destinies and our own lives. Surely anything ever to happen to us during that time period—anything that was actually about us, anyway—pales in comparison to what was always the bigger picture.

But you don't care, do you? Because we're the ones you want to read about as you start your own gradual journey into adulthood, aren't we? All that time, _you_ were the invisible audience, as was your brother (though when he starts at school and we send him this, we will no doubt change some bits; we expect your brother's version will have far more emphasis on Quidditch and far less on...well, the things that we thought would be of greater interest to you). You know already that the "plot," if you will, of Harry's story will tie in—indeed, you know it will dominate ours. But if we were just a part of Harry's story, then he in turn was just a part of ours, wasn't he?

To look so far back now is quite tiring, actually. To go back and start at the beginning, knowing all that lay ahead for Harry and for us when we were your age and in your shoes, knowing all we had to traipse through to get to this point, has been nothing short of exhausting. You must feel the same way, knowing it all as well as you do, but our intention was to write everything as if you were reading a story completely new to you, written by strangers, and not address you personally in the narrative (though you'll notice Dad breaks this rule constantly). We vowed at first not to read each other's entries, but Dad has needed Mum's endless help in editing and each of us has recounted having thoughts about various people, including unflattering thoughts about each other, that felt like small betrayals if not openly shared, so yes, both of us know everything the other has said and has forgiven it, so you have no blackmail over us, young lady. We hope these don't bore you _too_ much and that they don't end up merely collecting dust in your trunk (but Mum asks you not to use reading this—or anything else—as an excuse to neglect your important readings that will actually further your education). Anyway, Rosie, we still plan to write to you every week if not every day. Get your sleep, eat right, and do your homework. Love from Mum and Dad.

--

_Mum_

When people learn that I'm Muggle-born, the first thing they want to know is how I knew I was different from my peers as a child. They want to know what "strange things" happened around me, what was my first clue that I was "special." The truth is, I hardly remember. There are certain incidents that stick out in my mind, of course, but mostly, I suppose I remember being different in other ways.

I still remember quite well the day that I started primary school. The moment Mum gently shook me awake, I sprang immediately to my feet, as though I'd merely been pretending to sleep, and bounced on the bed, excitedly saying something to the effect of, "Is it today? Do I really get to go to school?!" I remember Mum trying to get me to sit still as she grappled with my knots of hair, struggling to tame it into plaits. I remember twirling around for Dad in my new school jumper and plaid skirt. I remember that when my parents dropped me off at school and reassured me I would see them in a few hours that I quite happily skipped away from them into the building.

My first day can't have been all that bad; I remember coming home reasonably encouraged and telling my parents that I needed to learn the entire multiplication table before the week was out. The teacher hadn't asked it of us, she'd simply said we would be learning them throughout the year, but it was most important that I be ahead. When I had not needed teaching how to write my full name, the teacher had shown the class and said, "It looks as if Hermione's gotten a bit of a head start, doesn't it?" It took me only that long to realize that my top priority was the teacher's approval. How could I ever tire of her telling the class that they should all try to be more like me? And so I was always five steps ahead of my class, in whatever they were working on. It wasn't without considerable effort on my part, of course, but I think it truly made me happy. I don't remember receiving constant looks of annoyance or malicious whispers from my classmates, but in hindsight this may be because I wasn't looking yet. I don't remember devoting very much thought at all to my peers those first few weeks. It didn't occur to me to seek social interaction, though I assumed they all admired me.

The first inkling that perhaps I was not thought of glowingly by my classmates came one day when we were standing in line to use the water fountain. Maybe I'd been reciting the scientific properties of water aloud, maybe I'd merely been minding my own business, but whatever the case, the girl standing behind me said quite out of nowhere, "Why's your hair so messy all the time?"

Genuinely shocked, I replied, "Is it?"

"Yes," the girl said. "It looks ugly. Some of the boys were laughing about it yesterday, didn't you hear them?"

"No," I whispered, my hand shaking as I churned water from the fountain into my mouth.

"Oh," she said. "Well, they were. People make fun of you all the time, didn't you know?"

She tossed her own shiny dark hair, tied neatly with little pink ribbons, casually over her shoulder as she leaned over the water fountain for her drink. A moment later, she leapt back sputtering and screaming in disgust; the water fountain had sprayed some sort of mud-colored sludge all over her face, hair, and pinafore. The teacher, mystified, told the headmistress to contact a plumber, but of course no one ever found the source of the unidentified substance. At the time I thought nothing of it, other than it served the girl right (I heard she found the substance very difficult to wash out of her hair and impossible to wash out of her clothes). I felt no vindictive pleasure, though; I was still in shock over her words.

After this, I began to notice. I noticed, for the first time, that no one sought me out or spoke to me at lunch or break—no one sought me out or spoke to me _ever_. When my hand shot into the air time after time in class, those were not looks of admiration I was given. I was not admired, much less liked. I retaliated by devoting even more time to my studies and rising ever higher above the level of my classmates. It became more important for mine to be the first hand in the air, for me to be right, for me to know everything before the teacher taught it. And so it continued throughout my primary school years. I grew increasingly studious and increasingly isolated. I don't recall many more occasions when classmates were cruel outright, but still nobody sought my company. This became quite natural to me, though, really. And I was by no means shy; I talked as much as I wanted to anyone I pleased, whether they wanted to listen or not, and I still rather liked commanding attention in class. After a while I didn't even notice when I was annoying people; in fact, I learned to block it out so effectively that I got back my hope of winning people over with my intellect and forgot ever having doubted it as a social tool.

When primary school ended, I'd forged no friendships that I would miss, so I was quite looking forward to progressing to secondary school. Not only was the material sure to be more pleasantly challenging, it was a fresh start; I was going to a different new school than most of my classmates and would have the chance to impress a different crowd of people..._very _different, as it happened.

Harry says he remembers everything about the day he got his letter, all the details leading up to it and following it; he remembers he'd been thinking about how he'd look in his dyed gray uniform on his first day at Stonewall when he heard the mail arrive, he remembers trying to make his cousin go get the mail instead, he remembers what else was in the mail with his letter (a postcard and a bill), he remembers slowly sitting down at the table, savoring the fact that someone had written to him, before his uncle snatched it away. Well, I don't. In a way, I almost feel as if there _was _nothing before I got the letter, like everything before it was a foggy former life no longer quite connected with me. When I reach back in my memory of that day, the only image that comes to mind is the words "_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,_" staring calmly back at me from the parchment, indifferent to whether I believed them or not, just simply _there_.

_Did_ I believe it at first? Of course not. At least, I don't think so. Phrases such as "Ridiculous!" and "Oh, honestly" ran through my head. In fact, I only mentioned the letter in passing to my parents, brushing it off as a bit of a laugh. I remember they were a bit alarmed and pressed me for details about who might contact me in this way, but I laughed and said, "Oh, Mum, Dad, you aren't going to pay this any mind, are you? It's such a load of old rubbish, isn't it?" I was even able to forget about it until about a week later, when a Ministry official showed up at my doorstep and offered to escort us to Diagon Alley.

--

_Dad_

So we're starting with before Hogwarts, then? Okay, but you know I didn't go to a Muggle primary school like your mother did, right? Grandma Weasley just taught us all at home (good thing, too, as I expect Muggle schools would've stuffed our heads full of all sorts of things we don't need to know, like what some Muggle bloke did a hundred years ago—and, oh yeah, _science_). So I've got no sad social isolation stories or anything. And I don't remember the day I got my letter either—come to think of it, did I even get a letter? Maybe in Wizarding families like mine, where five people have gone before you, you don't really need an official letter of acceptance; there's never been a time when Hogwarts wasn't just a natural part of your future, like growing up. Or maybe Hogwarts just forgot about me.

Your mum just said I had to have gotten a letter, because obviously I knew what books to bring and the first-year booklist would've been different from my brothers'. So never mind, then.

Anyway, I do remember the morning when we were all supposed to go to Diagon Alley for school supplies for my first year, which would've been Fred and George's third, and Percy's fifth. Percy was going on about being made prefect.

"...and I think that I'll most certainly be considered for Head Boyship in seventh year, once Professor Dumbledore sees how right he was to have this kind of faith in my responsibility, that is," he said, perhaps unaware of Fred, George, and Ginny mouthing along with him, this being about the fortieth time we'd been treated to his prefect badge acceptance speech.

"Oh, I'm almost sure of it," Mum beamed, forking an extra fried egg onto his plate (I don't think she was even aware of the fact that she'd been heaping more food than the rest of us got onto his plate almost all summer). "You know, I meant to tell you yesterday—Bill said in his letter well done on being made prefect. He and Charlie both enjoyed it so much, you know. Now all we need is for Fred and George to be made prefects in two years, don't we?"

"Mother, they can't _both_ be prefects," said Percy stiffly. "Each year can only have one boy and one girl—"

"And more importantly, Mum," George said, "we'd sooner jump naked into a vat of dragon bogies—"

"—with a horde of ravenous fire crabs at the bottom, yes," said Fred pleasantly.

Ginny giggled, "You _would_?" as though she hadn't been hearing roughly eighty variations of this all summer (some of the more ambitious ones involving living in a troll's loincloth and being cursed with chronic vomit of the ears).

"Well, I wouldn't say you've got much reason to be worried, do you?" said Mum, suddenly frowning. "What with all the trouble you two got into last year. I thought I'd die of shame when I got the owl saying you'd put Whizzing Worms in that poor boy's tea." (George choked over his sandwich, still profoundly amused by this memory.)

I waited for Mum to say that in that case, we'd have to wait the four years to see if I was made a prefect. Not that I wanted to be one; I was just waiting for her to say so, that's all. She forgot, though.

"When can we go?" I asked loudly.

"Go?" asked Mum absentmindedly.

"To Diagon Alley."

"Well, as soon as your father gets up, of course. But don't go bothering him, he's very tired. It was another busy night at the Ministry."

"Right." I reached for the last bacon sandwich on the plate but Fred swiped it.

"I'm still hungry," I said angrily.

"Well, so am I, little bro, so I guess the question would have to be who got it first, then, wouldn't it? Don't worry, I'm working it out as we speak."

I scowled, but before I could say anything Ginny asked, "What _did _Dad have to do last night?"

"Oh, you know," Mum sighed, waving her wand so that our empty dishes scooted neatly into the basin, "the usual nonsense. Apparently an engaged couple in Bristol enchanted their wedding rings to say their vows for them, but they must have parted ways because they pawned the rings off to a Muggle shop..."

Yeah, yeah. To pass the time I counted the places we'd have to go in Diagon Alley to get my school supplies. We went to London all the time, but usually it wasn't to get anything for me, so I was sort of looking forward to it, I guess. I mean, I know, big deal, right, and buying robes and books and all that was bound to be a right chore, but mind you, I was definitely looking forward to getting a wand. How cool would it be, when I could finally just hold something and—_zap_, though you know, it wasn't really even the doing magic part I was looking forward to. I mean, sure, it was going to be nice to actually get to finally feel what it was like, but growing up watching it on a daily basis does sort of kill the excitement, I suppose, doesn't it...That's what I started to think when I saw how chuffed Hermione and Harry were to be learning it. To me it was just like, oh yeah, guess I'm doing magic now, huh, look at that...but I guess I'm supposed to talk about that later...So anyway, it was going to be cool getting a wand not just because of that, but because...I dunno, I guess it is sort of special, isn't it? The wand chooses _you_, not the other way around, and every wand's different, so...I wanted to see which one would choose me, that's all. Yeah, I guess it was sort of pathetic, but after all, you felt the same way when you got yours, didn't you?

"...and they just started shouting the vows from the cushion the ring bearer was holding—well, you can imagine the spectacle it made. And it was a large wedding, your father and Perkins had to perform about fifty Memory Charms."

"We'll let him rest, then," said Ginny, but she stared impatiently at the clock, concentrating hard on Dad's hand as though trying to will it off the word "bed." Come to think of it, that probably was what she was trying to do, just to see if she could. Ginny, more than any of the rest of us (as Mum was fond of saying constantly), had a lot of bursts of magic that she couldn't contain, and after a while it was happening so often that she started trying it willingly. I'd often go into her room to find her concentrating hard on something, like a hand mirror, trying to get it to crack, and she'd tell me to hit her or something to get her all miffed so her magic would come out (probably at my expense—the mirror would've exploded in my face or something). It was a shame she was the youngest, because she was looking forward to Hogwarts more than I think I ever was, or any of us, come to that, yet she had to watch brother after brother go before her. I felt sorry for her, but in retrospect, I think I was actually looking forward to having her envy me for something, if only for a year. Dunno if you've noticed, but it wasn't often that anyone in the family was ever jealous of _me_ for anything.

"You know we can't take too long in London, Mother," said Percy composedly. "I have toget in five more hours of study for O.W.L.s before bed."

"No, you don't," I said. "You don't take the stupid exams for almost a year, Perce. A _year_."

"Ten months!" said Percy, reddening unnecessarily. "_Ten months_, Ron. And as a school prefect, it is my duty to be prepared long before the rest of those in my year, and to not have my every free hour weighed down with studying, so as to devote more time to my duties as a school prefect."

"But that's mental, you're not going to remember everything you studied over the summer—"

"Ron, you know how seriously your brother takes his studies," said Mum sternly. "I say we should all be going out of our way to accommodate his study schedule. And I hope you're planning on taking a leaf out of his book—unlike you two, I see," she added bitterly, turning to the twins. "I notice you haven't done any of your summer homework yet. I suppose you mean to leave it till you're on the train, do you, like last year? And tell Professor McGonagall that someone had cursed you so that a giant fanged moth materialized and ate your essays every time you tried to write them—"

"A giant fanged _canary_, Mum. Whatever would a moth have to do with anything?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," I said. "Mum, it'll take some time, won't it? I mean, we've got to go everywhere, haven't we?" I ticked off the familiar places in my mind. "Gringotts, Flourish and Blotts, Eeylop's for Percy's owl, Madam Malkin's, Ollivander's—"

"What, dear?" said Mum absentmindedly, pressing her wandtip against the dirty dishes in the basin so that detergent slobbered out onto them. "Oh...no, not Ollivander's. And Percy, unless your robes are getting too small—and I don't think yours are yet, Fred, George?—we don't need to go to Madam Malkin's either, so obviously that will save us a bit of time."

"What d'you mean, not Ollivander's?" I asked incredulously. "I've got to have a wand, don't I?"

"Well, of course you'll have a wand, Ron," said Mum in mild surprise. "Charlie's old wand is still in perfectly good condition, didn't I show you? Look, here—_Accio_!" A small, narrow box came zooming into the kitchen, and she opened it to show me Charlie's banged up old wand, the unicorn hair sticking out of the end. "There, that will do, won't it?"

"So...so _I'm not getting my own wand_?"

"Ron..." said Mum warningly. "Don't do this, please..."

"I s'pose I'm not getting my own robes, or books, or _anything_, am I?"

"What do you care about all that?" Ginny asked.

"Well, for one thing I'm going to look right stupid in too-small robes—why don't I just go to Hogwarts wearing a banner? A banner that says 'I'm p—'"

"Ron!" said Ginny sharply, glancing at Mum.

"Is there any reason for me to even _come _to Diagon Alley?"

"Oh, Ron," said Fred irritably, "find someone who cares, will you?"

I was going to hit him, I really was. Then I caught sight of Mum, who was actually looking my way for the first time all morning. She didn't look angry, exactly, just exasperated, I guess. I could practically hear her mentally sighing, "_Why_ can't he be more like the rest?"

"I'm going upstairs. Don't bother me. I'm not going to London," I said through clenched teeth, and stormed out of the kitchen. I strained my ears as I climbed the stairs, and caught snippets of Percy's disapproving voice saying the words "childish...ungrateful." When I reached my bedroom I slammed the door as forcefully as I could but I don't know if they heard it down in the kitchen; all it achieved was making our ghoul start moaning and banging the pipes at me. I threw myself down on the bed and picked up _Martin Miggs_, but I wasn't really reading. I was waiting for someone to come tell me it was time to go. I'd tell them again I wasn't going, as there was obviously no need for me. No matter how much they asked me to come out, I wouldn't.

I did stay in my room all day, actually. They made the trip to London without me, and what's more, I really don't think anyone noticed.


	2. Preparations

**Disclaimer: If I owned any of this, why the heck would I be publishing it online? Think about that for a while before you ****sue me, hypothetical legal predators to whom we must defer. **

**--**

**Mum**

I must, deep down, have believed it from the moment I read the letter—maybe part of me had _always _known what I was. Because as the man from the Ministry (who did not give his name) patiently explained everything to my parents and me, I was surprised to find that my brain was not constantly sputtering objections, reminding me how _unlikely_, how _absurd _I knew it all was. I mean, all right, when the wizard made our living room furniture do a dance number I suppose I had no choice but to believe he was magic, but even so, the lack of resistance from my normally outspoken logic made me wonder if part of a Muggle-born's gift is the intuition that magic is a natural part of them, the ability to readily accept it when the time comes. Everything the wizard from the Ministry told me, about certain people having these amazing abilities, about the magical community living secretly among us, about magic manifesting itself in some wizards who had not been born to magical parents—inexplicably, it all made sense to me.

I eagerly fired off questions while my parents sat dumbfounded, until finally Mum, speaking for the first time in almost an hour, said tentatively, as though trying to will me to talk sense, "But Hermione, dear...you're not thinking of _going_?"

I stared at her. "Well, yes, Mum, of course. Shouldn't I?"

"It's just...well, we've chosen where you'll be going to secondary school, haven't we?"

"Well...yes, but...this changes things quite a bit, doesn't it?"

Dad cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Well, maybe your mother's right, Hermione. I mean, at Woodhouse you'll be learning...proper things...that will be of actual use to you in the world, and your career..." He stole a nervous glance at the Ministry wizard, as though afraid he might be offending him and would be smitten with a plague or something.

"Sir," the Ministry official said dryly, "I understand your concern, but your daughter will find that in the Wizarding world—"

"—there will be all sorts of career options available to me which, obviously, will require competency in various magical areas," I said promptly. "Don't you think the Wizarding world needs its doctors and teachers as well?"

"Indeed it does," the wizard said, looking at me with something like benign amusement. "Young wizards are not educated in magic merely for solutions to petty everyday dilemmas, Mr. Granger. We have great need of new magical skill in every corner of our community. I assure you your daughter's pursuit of magical knowledge would not be squandered."

Mum and Dad didn't look at all reassured, though I think this had less to do with my education than with the fact that their world had been turned upside down and they could think of little else but to somehow right it again. All I felt, however, was that my world, for the first time, _was _right side up.

The Ministry wizard gave us directions on getting to Diagon Alley, and wrote down for me all the places I ought to go for school supplies; he offered again to accompany us, but my parents politely declined (no doubt they were still hoping to talk me out of the whole thing, or perhaps they couldn't help but mistrust him). After bidding us good day, he Disapparated right before our eyes, leaving me breathless and Mum clutching her mouth in horror.

The next day we made the trip to London; my parents were still a bit reluctant but my heart was pumping furiously with excitement. I couldn't wait to see more proof that a magical community really existed, hard evidence of everything the man from the Ministry had told me. We got off the Underground onto a perfectly ordinary street. I located the shops and landmarks the wizard had said would come before the Leaky Cauldron, finally spotting the bookstore he'd said would be to the right of it.

"Just...here—yes, this ought to be it," I said confidently, stopping in front of a somewhat shady-looking little pub. I looked at my parents, who seemed to be having a little trouble bringing it into focus.

"Well...shall we go in, then?" I said when they finally seemed to have pinpointed the pub in their vision, suddenly finding myself a bit nervous. Would it be immediately apparent to other wizards that I was not yet really one of them? My parents eyed it warily, but sighed and followed me in.

I couldn't help but wonder if my informant had been mistaken; this seemed a very unimpressive spot for the entrance to the magical part of London. The inside was rather grubby and cramped. I peered furtively at the customers, wanting to get an idea of how the average wizard might look, but Mum and Dad prodded me along anxiously.

"Excuse me," I said tentatively to the toothless old bartender, whose name, I would later learn, was Tom.

Tom peered good-naturedly back at me. "Can't give you anything stronger than tea, missy."

"No, no," I said, "I don't want anything to drink. I just...well...I need to get to Diagon Alley, and I was told the entrance was through here..."

"Oh, a Muggle-born, eh?" he said in mild interest, looking at my parents, who stiffened a bit as though they felt they were being patronized in some way. "Not to worry, I'll help you through. The entrance is just out back, here." He led us out through the back door, but it was a dead end. All that was there was a dustbin against a brick wall. Tom, however, drew out a rather short length of wood, and tapped one of the bricks in the wall, which slowly became a hole as though an invisible vacuum had sucked it up. Before we knew it, the wall had opened into a wide archway, beyond which a bustling street was visible.

"There you are, then," Tom said brightly. "Trust you know where you ought to go, and everything?"

"What?" I said, my eyes darting back and forth between the archway and the wand in his hand (could a simple wood fragment _really_ channel magic like that? Why didn't it bother me how little sense this all made?). "Oh...oh yes, I'll be all right. Thanks very much. Well," I said to my parents, as Tom bowed his way back inside the pub, "I suppose we ought to..."

"Right," said Mum and Dad together, though they were eyeing the street beyond with some apprehension. As we made our way down the cobbled street, they exchanged somewhat uneasy looks, but I barely noticed at the time. I concentrated on letting my eyes swivel in every direction, devoting a few moments to each storefront, letting my eyes absorb it before quickly turning to look at something else. I barely stopped to marvel; right now I just wanted to put it all in my mind for later examination.

"There it is, there's the bank," I said quickly upon spotting Gringotts.

I need hardly tell you that my parents and I were a bit shaken at seeing the goblins. Our informant from the Ministry had mentioned the existence of other magical Beings, of course, like goblins, hags, trolls, and so on, but after the onslaught of astounding information he'd given me I'd forgotten to be on the lookout for such creatures. The goblins were small, obviously, but intimidating just the same. As we passed them, my parents seemed convinced at last that the magical community was not an elaborate hoax, but this did nothing to improve their moods. Thank goodness we didn't have a vault to go to, for I'm not sure they could've handled one of those cart rides; we only had to exchange Muggle money for Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts, which was a mercifully quick process.

Once I had money (and had committed to memory the reference sheet for the coins' respective values that the Ministry wizard had given me), the first place I dragged my parents to was Flourish and Blotts, where I spent a good two hours. In addition to the required texts, I bought countless other books that caught my eye. I wanted to know all the essentials by the time I arrived at Hogwarts. Though I had no idea at the time of all the problems my heritage would cause me, I knew that as a Muggle-born, I would have to fit in eleven years' worth of knowledge about the magical world before starting at school. There were sure to be so many things that those who had grown up in Wizarding homes took for granted that no one would think to tell me; the more I could teach myself, the better. I focused especially on the Wizarding world's culture and history; I bought books of magical history dating from medieval times to the present, being particularly interested in _Hogwarts, A History_. Another tome that caught my eye was _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_; I turned it over and read: _"Who and what do experts say aided the Dark Lord in his ascent to power? What became of his predecessors and followers? And what do we know of Harry Potter, the young boy who ended his reign at last?" _Intrigued, I immediately added it to my growing pile. I really did have so much to learn and I couldn't wait to start.

When my parents finally said I ought to save some money for my other supplies, I reluctantly tore my eyes from the bookshelves and paid for my books. I had to buy a cauldron, phials, scales, and dragon hide gloves before going to Madam Malkin's for robes.

"Hogwarts?" Madam Malkin asked briskly. "Over here, then." She beckoned me to a stool in front of a mirror, next to another stool where a second witch was fitting robes for a boy about my age.

"Still too small," said an old woman who was watching the boy's fitting beadily. "A bit larger, then. For heaven's sakes, can't you see my grandson will burst his robes if you insist on them being so small? And draw them up a bit, won't you?"

The boy's cherubic face flushed scarlet. He noticed my parents and me listening, went redder, and determinedly looked at the floor.

"We almost thought he might not get in, you know," the old woman told the witch robing him conversationally. "Hasn't quite inherited the family talent, it seems, only just started showing signs of magic. We do hope he won't disappoint in what House he goes into. All the family have been in Gryffindor, it would be a terrible shame if he broke the tradition and landed in Hufflepuff."

"Oh, my old House!" piped up Madam Malkin from behind me, pinning up my robes. "You'd have much to be proud of if your grandson was put there."

The old woman looked for a moment as though she was going to say she doubted it, but thought better of it. "Well, I suppose anything's better than Slytherin, isn't it? The day my family produces a Slytherin is the day I change my name."

"I—I'm sure there are nice ones..." her grandson said timidly.

"No House that hosted He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his ilk can turn out anyone worth a hair of a decent person's head," his grandmother snapped. The boy looked slightly abashed, and she sighed. "Neville, will you be all right here for just a few minutes while I go to the Apothecary?"

"Yes, Gran," the boy mumbled, and the old woman left the shop.

"Hello," I said. "I'm Hermione Granger, who are you? Neville, isn't it?"

The boy looked at me in surprise, then stammered, "Er, yes, Neville. Neville Longbottom."

"Are you a first-year as well, Neville? But you're not Muggle-born, are you? You must be ever so excited, I suppose you've been waiting to go to Hogwarts your whole life. _I_ haven't been, obviously, I only just learned about it all, but of course, I'm ever so pleased about it—that was your grandmother? She's not very pleasant, is she? Whatever did she mean about you letting her down with what House you're in? What is so wrong with the one House?"

Neville blinked at me for a moment before saying, "Well...you know...most every family's got a House they've all been in, or want to be in...I don't know what Gran'll say if I'm not in Gryffindor."

"That's the best to hope for, then?"

"Well...I couldn't say," he said diplomatically. "Dumbledore himself was in it, though, so that's got to count for something, right?"

"Oh, the headmaster, you mean? That's interesting. What are the others, did you say?"

"Well..." He looked rather perplexed at my apparent desire to keep speaking with him. "There's Ravenclaw...for the really bright, I suppose...Hufflepuff...everyone says that's what I'll probably get, but I don't s'pose that'd be bad...and Slytherin."

"Slytherin, the one your grandmother doesn't like? What's so wrong with it?"

"Well...don't you know, that's the House that...You-Know-Who...and a bunch of other Dark wizards were in."

"Who's You-Know-Who? _I _don't know who."

"Oh...well, you know..."

"No, I don't," I said again, but at that moment Madam Malkin said to me, "That's you done, dear." I wondered if she was uncomfortable with the topic, but supposed I could easily look it up in one of my new books.

"Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, then," I said brightly to Neville, hopping down off the stool, and my parents and I headed for our last destination: Ollivander's, for my wand.

When we stepped into the shop there didn't seem to be anyone there. It looked almost like an abandoned shop; there was nothing in it but a single chair and thousands of thin boxes that I supposed contained wands stacked to the ceiling. "Excuse me," I called out.

"Hermione, let's go," Mum said quietly. "There doesn't seem to be anyone here." Perhaps she felt that my getting a wand would seal our fate once and for all; perhaps if I went home without the official tool to make me a witch, this would all go away. Part of me also felt as if it still might, but unlike her, I found the thought unbearable.

"Don't be silly, Mum, I've got to have a wand."

"That you do. A wizard is only as good as his wand."

All three of us jumped; a spindly old man with oddly orblike eyes was suddenly standing there as though he had quietly, gradually materialized from the air (which in fact was entirely possible, I reminded myself).

"Are you Mr. Ollivander?" I asked, in a somewhat small voice. This was the first person I'd seen who really did look like he was magic. "I'd like a wand, please." I dug in my purse for a handful of Galleons and held them out to him. He didn't take them, he simply stared impassively at me.

"Er—Mr. Ollivander? I'd like—"

"Willow, perhaps," he said suddenly. He turned and slid one of the boxes out from the middle of a stack. I winced but the tower of boxes did not come crashing down; the boxes above the gap stayed firmly in place as if an invisible brick were lodged beneath them where the box had been. "Willow and phoenix feather. Nine inches. Nicely flexible." He opened the box and placed the wand in my hand.

"Thank you very much." I held the money out to him again but he shook his head impatiently.

"Give it a try, my dear."

"A—a try? All right—" I waved it awkwardly through the air, but before anything could happen he had taken it away.

"No, no, not for you at all. All right, then...Yew. Unicorn hair. Eight inches. Quite rigid."

Bewildered, I took the proffered wand and waved it more purposefully, but again it was snatched away. Mr. Ollivander kept handing me wands, enumerating their characteristics in a reverent voice, but nothing happened with any of them and he always took them away before I could really try.

"Well, I must say you pose a bit of a challenge," said Mr. Ollivander, though he seemed delighted about it. "Not to worry, though..."

I could feel a sort of desperation, almost panic, rising inside me. Mum and Dad were looking at me almost sympathetically now, and I wondered if they were thinking what I was. This was all a mistake. I wasn't magic after all. The wands could tell what people could not; they could sense right to the core of me, and there was no magic there.

"I—I'm just not trying hard enough!" I said desperately. "If you would just not take them away so fast—I could concentrate harder, I could try harder, I could—"

"Not to worry, my dear, I do love a challenge," said Mr. Ollivander cheerfully. "You'll be Muggle-born, then? They always worry they'll never find the right wand. You will, though, you will... Why not give this one a try? Vinewood and dragon heartstring. Seven inches. Moderately flexible."

I snatched it from him eagerly and held it tightly. Perhaps I willed myself to imagine it, but I thought something felt different about it; it felt like I was holding a narrow strip of warm electric light rather than a lifeless fragment of wood. Pleading with myself to succeed this time, I concentrated with all my might, imagining that I was sending every last particle of my mind down into this thin wooden instrument, and made a slow, deliberate sweeping motion through the air with it. I could have cried in relief when blue and gold sparks burst from it and crackled there in the air for a moment before fading. Mr. Ollivander exclaimed in triumph and I turned around to see my parents actually beaming for the first time all day.

As we left the shop, my hand quivering slightly as I held the box with my wand in it, Mum took my other hand and said, smiling slightly, "You know what? I think you might turn out to be one of the best witches that school has ever seen."

I smiled back at her; you might say they were empty words, for she could not possibly know that, but I knew she was telling me that she accepted it, she wanted this for me. On my other side, Dad put his arm around me and said, "Without a doubt."

When we finally got home, I headed straight to my room. I took out all my new books about magic, chose one, sat down at my desk, and began to read.

--

**Dad**

I _really _wish I hadn't said anything about needing an animal to take to Hogwarts.

"Well, now that Percy has Hermes, he won't be needing Scabbers anymore, will he?" Mum said.

"He _needed _that rat?" I muttered.

"Percy, dear, do you think you could let Ron take Scabbers with him?"

"I don't want his foul rat!"

"Ron," said Percy seriously, "having any kind of pet would be an ideal way for you to learn a bit of responsibility."

"Come off it, responsibility for what? It's not as if he's ever awake." I looked at Scabbers snoozing in a patch of sunlight on the windowsill. He'd been there for the last five days, I think.

"Well, this is just corking," said Fred unexpectedly, looking up from playing Exploding Snap with George. "Ron's going to school looking pathetic in every possible way."

"_Fred!_" said Mum, but I happened to agree wholeheartedly with him. Everything I was taking with me, from my robes to the damn rat, was secondhand and shabby. I'd be lucky not to be mistaken for some kind of mutated overgrown house-elf, really.

"Don't worry, Ron," George said, looking up as well. "I'm sure you can make Scabbers look more distinguished to the undiscerning eye."

"Oh yeah, how?"

"Oh, I dunno..." he said unconcernedly, re-shuffling the deck of cards. "Turn him blue? Or yellow?"

"How'm I supposed to do that?"

"Hmmm..." said George. "Let's see...I'm afraid I'd only know how to turn him yellow. You say...you say, '_Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, turn this stupid, fat rat yellow._'"

"Where'd you learn that?"

"School, of course."

"They taught you a spell specifically for Scabbers?" said Ginny, raising her eyebrows.

"Nah, just the template," Fred said. "You can insert the appropriate adjectives and noun into the three syllables preceding the word 'yellow.'"

"Why don't you show me, then?" I demanded.

"Because I'm no more allowed to do magic right here and now than you are, you great stupid prat," said George.

Mum sharply waved her wand in Fred and George's direction; their cards swept out of their hands, stacked themselves neatly, and put themselves away.

"Mum! That was just about the longest we've ever gone without the deck exploding!"

"You shouldn't be playing cards anyway, you should be packing your trunks! I won't have you holding us up in the morning as usual."

"Blimey, we go back to school _tomorrow_?" said Fred in feigned surprise. "It completely slipped my mind, I still haven't touched my homework—Mum, I'm joking."

Ginny came over and curled up next to me on the sofa. "Are you excited?" she asked quietly.

"S'pose so."

"I wish it was me," she said sadly.

"Come on, no, you don't," I said, though I liked hearing her say that.

"Yes, I do. Not only do I not get to go, but that's almost nine months I'm stuck here alone with just Mum and Dad! Am I supposed to play Gobstones and Exploding Snap and chess with _them_? And with you gone—" She looked around and dropped her voice even lower. "—who am I supposed to play Quidditch with?"

Fred and George never let Ginny play Quidditch with them (probably afraid a gust of wind would blow her away; she never was much for size), so when she tired of practicing by herself in the middle of the night, she'd come wake me up and make me play with her. If she ever brags to you that she always beat me, well, I'd like to see even Barry Ryan catch a Quaffle repeatedly when he's half-asleep.

"Well, all right, you'll miss me a bit," I conceded. "But be glad you don't have to go tomorrow, I'm actually really—" I caught myself before I said "nervous," but Ginny nodded sagely as though she knew what I'd been about to say.

"Aaah, are you scared, ickle Ronnie?" said Fred.

I started; I hadn't noticed the git sneak up behind me. "No. Shut up."

"Well, you should be," George said, glancing over. "What if you're put in Slytherin, Ron, ever think of that?"

"Shut up."

"Your wit knows no bounds," said Fred dryly. "Seriously, though—what if you don't pass the Sorting test?"

"What test?"

"It hurts a lot," he replied with a perfectly straight face. "They've got to know who's got real grit before they put you in Gryffindor, haven't they?"

"Oh yeah? Why's it so painful?" I asked, trying to sound disdainful; I was pretty sure he was pulling my leg anyway.

"Why? Blimey, Ron, don't you know the size and strength of the average troll?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I remember the troll they had me wrestle," Fred went on in a hushed voice. "Raised a bruise half the size of a Bludger on my head, it did—and I couldn't use my left arm for weeks—they would've put me in Hufflepuff if I'd fared any worse—and I was one of the lucky ones. "

I looked around for Mum, waiting for her to tell him not to make things up, but she'd gone upstairs with a bundle of laundry.

"Whatever," I said in a determinedly bored voice. "Anyway...got to go upstairs...finish packing, you know..."

"Sweet dreams," smirked George. I thought I could hear he and Fred laughing as I went upstairs.

It was true, I _did _need to finish packing, but I didn't want to just yet. The first thing I did on entering my room was sit down on the bed and stare out the window for a minute or two, the same spot I'd headed to every night for the last eleven years, the spot I might just miss over the next nine months when I was sleeping in a strange room with a bunch of strangers.

Don't get me wrong, I'd always looked forward to going to Hogwarts. But now, when I was due to be there in less than twenty-four hours, I was starting to wonder why I had.

--

**A/N: I didn't think that would be that long, but the important thing is the pre-Hogwarts chapters are done. After this I can finally go by the book's watch, but I feel like it was important to properly lay the groundwork and not rush it. If you actually got this far, please review! I neglected a midterm paper (and sleep) tonight to finish this chapter so some feedback would be appreciated to say the least. **


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